


Piece of Cake

by elyteracy



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Art, Cake, FBI, M/M, Tea, Theft, too much cake, two unlikely plot woven in one fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyteracy/pseuds/elyteracy
Summary: Kevin Day is an FBI agent working in the Art Theft division. Sent on a case in Chicago to investigate the theft ofLa Danceuse, a famous impressionist painting, he meets again with Andrew and Neil, old friends from college with which he cut contact when he left for Ireland seven years prior. Andrew now owns a cake shop called The Foxpile, and Neil works as a consulting accountant. They both take it upon themselves to stuff him with cake and tea.





	Piece of Cake

**Author's Note:**

> just so you know, i died writing this fic
> 
> This fic is part of the [AFTG Big Bang 2018](http://aftgbigbang.tumblr.com/). I said i would never do a big bang ever again, and here i am. I am a fool.
> 
> s/o to my amazing artist suola which you can find [here](http://suolasin.tumblr.com) and s/o to zen_fox, without which i would have never written this fic
> 
> dedicated to that one cake shop where i spent too much while in taiwan, the lemon tart was too goddamn amazing

Dying in a dirty back alley is not the way Kevin Day intended to go.

 

Kevin Day has many certainties in his life. He is a determined person. He's never been so convinced he would die in a dirty back alley in the middle of Chicago.

 

It’s late in the evening and the alley is badly lit. Kevin can barely see anything of the guy in front of him except that he’s tiny, has broad shoulders and is dressed all in black.

 

The guy isn’t moving, staring at Kevin. Kevin wishes for his gun, but he doesn’t have it. He left it at the office for maintenance with the weapons squad. 

 

"Move," the man says, his voice low and gravelly from probably years of smoking. Kevin can smell the cigarettes on his clothes even with the smelly stench of the trash coming from behind him. The man takes a step to the side and light falls on his features. He has a square jaw and a slightly crooked nose that has been broken before. Kevin knows that. The face belongs to a ghost from his past. 

 

"You're in my way," he continues.

 

"What?" Kevin says, unable to take his eyes off the familiar face. 

 

"I'm trying to trash this and your ass is in front of the dumpster."

 

"Andrew Minyard," Kevin blurts out. He had never expected to see the man again, except maybe in a coffin.

 

Andrew raises an eyebrow, which is the first expression on his face. "Do you want a medal for remembering my name? Because I also know yours, Kevin Day, and you are still in front of the dumpster."

 

Kevin finally takes a step aside. "I'm surprised to see you alive," he says, which is probably not the most polite thing to say, but Andrew Minyard doesn’t deserve polite words.

 

"Sorry to disappoint," Andrew says, face blank, and throws his trashbag in the dumpster.

 

Kevin crosses his arms. "What are you doing now?" He asks.

 

Andrew turns to him. "Are you trying out small talk now? Have you finally learned how to be a balanced human being?" He snickers. "It’s only taken you... about seven years."

 

Kevin clucks his tongue. "You're an asshole, that hasn't changed."

 

"Why would I change what works?"

 

Kevin is reminded all the nights of frustration now. He hasn't missed that. He isn’t sure he's missed Andrew. "You could have been so much. You could have been famous worldwide. What are you even doing now?"

 

"I bake." Andrew is already walking away in brisk steps and Kevin has to jog to catch up with him.

 

"You bake?" Kevin repeats, almost choking on the word. "Andrew, you were... you were such an amazing painter. I've seen your work, it is incredible. And now, you what...?"

 

"I make cakes. And I sometimes make cake art. It's very fancy, you should see."

 

Kevin is going to strangle this man. 

 

Andrew stops at the bottom of a staircases painted in a light blue on the side of a Chinese restaurant. The air smells like frying oil. Kevin tries to look inside but all he can see are dubiously clean tables and the vague silhouette of someone with black hair. "You don't work here, do you?"

 

Andrew snorts. "And what if I did? It's not your problem. I am not your problem." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But no, I don't work at a Chinese restaurant."

 

He climbs the steps. Kevin follows him up and steps inside what looks like a small coffee shop. The walls are painted a light yellow, reproductions of famous paintings hanging on each wall. There are multiple plants and flowers, four white tables, and one couch who has seen better days but looks clean. The place looks welcoming and that isn’t a word Kevin is ready to associate with Andrew Minyard.

 

"Andrew, I need to meet with a—” a familiar voice starts and stops when the owner spots Kevin. Neil Josten is a man of few words back when they'd still been in each other’s life, but he was rarely speechless. He blinks, looks at Andrew before looking back at Kevin.

 

"Hi, Neil," Kevin says, just to break the uncomfortable silence that has fallen between them.

 

"Kevin Day," Neil says. "Never thought I'd see you again."

 

Kevin takes it at the accusation it is and winces. "I wasn't expecting to see you either," he admits because he'd never been the liar of their trio.

 

Neil tilts his head to the right, considering him. His gaze is cold and appraising, a look he used to reserve for strangers. Kevin had never quite been a stranger to Neil and it’s a painful experience. It is a quick reminder that he'd left without saying goodbye seven years ago.

 

"Well, not that this isn't an interesting experience, I really do have to go," Neil says, glancing at his watch. "You and Andrew can catch up." Kevin doesn’t miss the derisive tone of his words.  

 

Neil shoulders his laptop bag. He looks professional in his light blue jumper. He grabs his coat from the coathanger and kisses Andrew on the cheek on his way out.

 

Kevin watches as Andrew grabs Neil's wrist. "Don't stay out too late," he says.

 

Neil tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "I can't predict how long it will take. Don't wait up for me, okay?"

 

Andrew makes a displeased sound but lets him go. Neil sent a cold look toward Kevin, waves at Andrew, and leaves.

 

It’s only when he’s gone that Kevin realizes the shop is entirely empty. "Why isn't there anyone?"

 

"We are closed, idiot," Andrew says. "I was taking out the trash before locking up when I saw you."

 

"Oh," Kevin says, guilt twisting in his stomach. He shouldn't have followed Andrew. This entire thing is stupid. He should be on his way home by now. "I can just go—” 

 

"Don't be stupid," Andrew cuts him off. "Take off your coat and sit down."

 

Kevin stays frozen for a moment. He should go home, but thinking of his new and empty apartment does not sit well with him. Just the idea of going back fills him with dread. He takes a deep breath and slips off his coat. He sits down at one of the tables near the counter. Andrew glances at him before disappearing behind an "Employee only" door.

 

Kevin traces the scar on his left hand, a nervous habit he'd never quite gotten rid of. Neil used to chastise him for it. He wonders if he will still do it, even years later.

 

Andrew comes back with two plates with cakes and mugs filled with coffee. He puts the tray on the table with a little more force than necessary before sitting in front of Kevin.

 

"You’re angry."

 

Andrew stabs his cake with his fork. "You disappeared for seven years, Kevin, with only a text. You can't expect me to be happy about it."

 

Kevin clenches his hand. His wrist is hurting. Phantom pain, he knows. His therapist has told him several times that it is only in his head. Andrew doesn’t miss it, though, and glances pointedly at his arm. Kevin looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry."

 

Andrew purses his lips, his shoulders tensed. He waves a hand dismissively. "Too little, too late, Kevin Day. Sorry won't cut it."

 

"I shouldn't have—" He pauses, looking for the right words. "Done that," he finishes, plainly. He looks down at his untouched cake. It’s a pie with orange flesh. He wonders what flavor it is. He's never tried Andrew's baking before. He used to say it is unhealthy and filled with too much sugar. He wants to try it, now, he’s sure of it. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Anything you want?"

 

"I want nothing," Andrew says, and the words hits him like a bullet to the chest.

 

Kevin stands up. "This was a bad idea.”

 

Andrew leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, face blank. "Pretty but dumb," he says. "Finish your cake and come back tomorrow."

 

Something in Kevin loosens. It feels like a missing piece of himself has fallen back into place after years without it. He sits back down, picks up his fork and cuts himself a piece of the pie. It’s good. The dough is crunchy, the pie neither too sweet nor too bitter. It tastes a bit salty. He can’t quite put a name on the flavor though.

 

"Pumpkin pie," Andrew says, answering his unvoiced question. 

 

Kevin looks around while he chews. The place really looks nice. Andrew seems settled in his life, more alive than he'd been seven years ago. And there is Neil, restless, runaway Neil, who hasn’t left, still with Andrew.

 

"This isn't bad," Kevin says, referring to more than the pie.

 

Andrew rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

 

*

 

Kevin is already awake and when the call comes. He doesn’t have many nightmares anymore, but sometimes things or people from the past can bring up old memories.

 

He's woken up with his heart slamming against his ribcage and the scent of cologne in his nose. 

 

He’s in the middle of stretching when his phone rings. He checks the caller. Rheman, his phone displays, meaning it’s work.

 

"Did you find something?" Is the first thing he asks.

 

"Hello to you too," Rheman answers. "We've found a lead. Some seller on the Dark Web. The picture advertises an antique desk, but the painting is in the background. We'd like you to come in and see if you can figure whether it's a real one or not."

 

Kevin checks the time. It’s seven thirty. He can see the city coming alive from the window of his apartment-hotel. "I'll be there in an hour, sir."

 

"Good. I'll see you later," Rheman says before hanging up.

 

Kevin stares at his phone for a moment. There's a message from his dad waiting for him. He clicks on it.  _ How are you, kiddo,  _ it says. Kevin doesn't know how to answer, so he doesn't. 

 

The bureau is already buzzing with people when he arrives. It is just shy of eight thirty by now. The first thing he does is serve himself a huge cup of coffee. He takes a big gulp and makes a face. American coffee really is terrible.

 

"Must be a bad day if you're willingly drinking feds coffee," Alvarez says when she saw him in the kitchen. Kevin doesn’t bother answering and dumps the rest of his cup in the sink. Alvarez makes a face. "Guess that proves my point," she mutters.

 

He enters his office. Jeremy is typing furiously on his computer, frowning at the screen. Kevin pushes his desk chair next to his.

 

"Hey, Kevin!" He says, with a bright smile, without looking away from the screen. "Sorry that I can't greet you properly, I've been trying to track the seller's IP address."

 

"Any luck?"

 

Jeremy shakes his head. "Not really. They connected to the server through a public wifi and went through a VPN. It could have been anyone." He makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat before throwing his hands in the air. "Nope, impossible to know even using the camera feed at the time it was posted."

 

Kevin shakes his head. "This easy access to VPN is making our job much harder than it has to be," he complains.

 

Jeremy leans back in his chair, grinning. "People are entitled to privacy, Kevin. It's a free country."

 

"People should think about using their privacy in other ways than doing crimes. Like porn. It's not a crime. They should stick to that."

 

Jeremy bursts out laughing. He smacks Kevin on the arm. "You're an asshole, Kevin Day, but a funny asshole." He is still laughing under his breath when he pulls up the picture posted on the web. "Here's what we found."

 

The picture displays a simple but elegant desk made from dark wood. Kevin doesn’t know much about furniture, but he isn't interested anyway. His focus is already on the painting in the background.  _ La Danceuse _ had been on it's way to London, loaned from a French museum, when it had been stolen from the truck. The authorities had managed to track it all the way to Chicago, where it had become an FBI case.

 

The painting itself pictures a beautiful woman with dark brown, almost black skin, reflecting the light in shades of violet. She is dressed in a deep blood red dress that flows around her in the midst of her dancing. It had been painted by Degrandmaison, a French impressionist.

 

"It's hard to say if the painting is real," Kevin admits. He points at a small point on the screen. "You can see some of the brushstrokes at the edge of her dress. They seem to correspond to the original one, but that could just mean we have a vaguely competent copycat. I would need to see the painting for myself. Is there any way to zoom in the picture?"

 

Jeremy makes a noise of disagreement. "I've done the best I could. I can give it to one of my colleagues in the tech squad who are more specialized with pictures but we won't get the definition you need to recognize if the painting is real."

 

"It means I have to request a meeting," Kevin says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'll inform Rheman, then."

 

*

 

The room is starting to empty. Kevin stays at his seat for a few minutes, watching the people leave. He thinks about his own empty apartment and isn’t sure he wants to leave.

 

“May I sit here?" Heather, the organizer of the meetings asks. He nods. "It's the third time I've seen you now and I don't even know your name." She smiles at him. She has wrinkles around her eyes and some of her gray hair has escaped from her bun.

 

"Kevin Day," he says.

 

"Nice to meet you, Kevin. My name is Heather, but I suppose you already know that." She looks at him for a moment, and silence falls between them. "You are not very talkative are you?"

 

"I can be talkative," he says. He can, when the subject inspired him. He isn't interested in most of the trivial subjects people are interested in.

 

"Maybe you could share a bit about you, next time? It helps to create a connection with other members."

 

Kevin stands up and pulls on his coat. "I'll think about it," he lies and makes his way out.

 

*

 

The sign on The Foxpile's door says it is closed, but there is still light inside. He knocked on the glass. It’s starting to get quite cold, and Kevin blows on his fingers to try and keep them warm.

 

He is about to knock again when the door finally opens. Andrew is standing behind it, bundled in a dark gray knitted sweater, which is more color than Kevin has ever seen him wear. "We're closed," he says. "And we don't accept arrogant Irish immigrants."

 

“That’s offensive," Kevin says. "I am as American as you are."

 

Andrew opens the door wider to let him inside. "Nothing to be proud of."

 

Kevin huffs but makes his way in. The shop is warm and smells sweet. Most of the chairs are already on the table, the place ready to be cleaned up. Kevin hooks his coat and scarf on the coathanger.

 

A flock of hair appears from behind the counter. Neil looks at him and cocks his head to the side. "You're back," he says, tone vaguely accusing. "We are closed, you know. We aren't here just for your convenience."

 

Kevin glares at him. "Your boyfriend doesn't seem to care," Kevin replies, crossing his arms.

 

"You sound like two old ladies bickering," Andrew joins in.

 

Kevin sits at the same table as a couple of nights ago. He can see behind the counter from there.  Andrew takes cake out of the fridge and opens a drawer to arm himself with a knife. Neil is leaning against the counter, close to the kettle that is starting to make little hissing noise. The water is ready. He pours the water in a simple but elegant white kettle with golden thread around the edge.

 

Andrew and Neil brush shoulders, unbothered by the small touch. Kevin watches them interact around each other in practiced, unconscious movements that speak of years of living together. Kevin's job is important to him and fulfilled a big part of his life, but he's never lived alone until recently and the loneliness is starting to weigh on him. He wishes for this. He wishes for this wordless understanding that Neil and Andrew have, their quiet but undeniable trust in each other.

 

Neil opens one of the cupboards above his head and pulled a black metal box and a tea infuser. "So, Kevin, you haven't become a worldwide famous artist in the past seven years, I suppose, since I haven't heard of you," he says.

 

Kevin decides to ignore the jab. "No, I haven't. I work for the FBI."

 

A loud chopping noise startles him. He looks at Andrew who is staring intensely at the cake. Kevin isn't sure if he'd tried to make equal slices, because the last is completely skewed. It cannot even be called a slice anymore. He wonders what the cake has done to Andrew to deserve such treatment. Andrew lays two of the nice-looking slices on dessert plates and lays them on the table before sitting in front of Kevin like he'd done the other night.

 

Neil pours the tea in three matching cups. He brings two to the table. "That's quite a change in career," he says, leaning against the counter, his own cup in one hand halfway to his mouth, and the scoop in the other. "Which division?"

 

 

Kevin looked up at him. "Art theft and forgeries," he says.

 

Neil's cup explodes on the floor. "Fuck," he curses.

 

"Are you alright?" Kevin asks.

 

Neil shakes his head. "I'm fine" he assures, already bending down to pick up the larger pieces of the broken cup. "I'm just clumsy."

 

Kevin frows, unconvinced. One because he is 50% sure Neil has thrown the cup on the floor deliberately, and two because people who could throw knives with almost-perfect accuracy were not clumsy. But because time (and many awkward and annoying situations) has taught him tact he decides to keep that for himself. He settles on a polite and slightly worried: "Do you need help?"

 

"I got it," Andrew says. He kneels beside Neil and slaps his hands out of the way. "Stop that, idiot. You're going to cut yourself."

 

"Is it a nice cup?" Kevin asked to Neil, who's disappeared under the sink. Kevin hears the sound of bottles clicking against each other and wonders what Neil is doing down there.

 

Andrew sweep the shards with the broom and throws them in the trashcan. "It’is an Ikea cup," he says, pulling out another one from the cupboard. He poured hot tea only halfway and holds it out to Neil. Neil, without batting an eyelash, fills it with some sort of alcohol he's pulled from under the sink. The bottle doesn’t have any label.

 

"I think you just committed treason to the Queen," Kevin says, looking with raised eyebrows, wondering what brought this on.

 

"Watch me not give a fuck," Neil deadpans and proceeds to down the entire cup of tea. He looks at the empty cup, blinks a few times, takes the bottle, drinks two more gulps and slaps it on the counter with a loud noise, still grimacing from the taste. Kevin watches him with deep confusion. Neil looks back at him. "So, Kevin. You're a fed in the art theft division, that's quite unusual. Tell me, what does your job entail?"

 

Kevin sends him a suspicious look, but Neil is talking to Kevin, which is better than the last week where he'd just been ignored by Neil every time he was over. He shrugs off the odd behavior. Neil has never been normal and that isn't the strangest thing Kevin has seen him do. 

 

He spends the rest of the evening explaining his job, or what he could at least. Some things are confidential.

 

With Andrew following their conversation while eating and Neil interjecting with sarcastic dry comments, Kevin is almost transported back to college, seven years ago.

 

Once the tea drank and the cake eaten, they close up the shop. It is way past midnight and Neil's eyes are fluttering with tiredness. He’s leaning against Andrew, who runs a hand through his hair. "Go to sleep upstairs, idiot. Closing up is not your job. It's my shop, I'll take care of it."

 

Neil takes the stairs with slow steps, yawning the whole way up. Andrew's gaze follows him with something like warmth.

 

"What?" He says to Kevin when he turns around and catches him watching.

 

Kevin shakes his head. "I've never seen you be this affectionate," he says.

 

Andrew throws him a strange look that Kevin can’t place. "I was plenty affectionate in college," he says. "You just never saw it."

 

 

*

 

The meeting with the painting seller is in the early afternoon and Kevin has woken up with his heart pounding and anxiety pouring in his veins. It’s six in the morning and he doesn’t have to be at the Bureau until 10 when they would brief him for the meeting.

 

It isn't the first time Kevin goes to this type of meeting and he is ready for the risks, but it doesn’t make it less nerve-wracking.

 

Instead of pacing around in the apartment,  he decides to make a visit to the Foxpile.

 

The board at the bottom of the stairs says: "Cake of the day: New York Cheesecake", which Kevin isn't a fan of. The little chimes over the door makes a small sound when he enters. He's never been there during the official hours and he is surprised to see a stranger watering the plants on the windowsill. That explains how they were still alive. Kevin doesn’t think Andrew cares enough about plants to keep them alive.

 

She smiles at him. She is East Asian with pale skin and almond eyes. Her hair is bleached white and the tips were a pastel pink that matches the subtle color of her lipstick. "I'll be right with you," she says. He isn't used to that niceness when he enters the shop and wonders for a second if he'd died on the way and met an angel.

 

There is only one other person in the cafe, an old lady with gray hair and wide round glasses, reading what looks like a thriller judging by the cover. He sits down and pulls his phone out of his pocket to answer a few emails. 

 

"Kevin," a voice says, sounding slightly surprised. He looked up to find Andrew staring at him with something akin to confusion. "I didn't know you could even wake up at this hour."

 

"Couldn't sleep," Kevin says.

 

Andrew squints at him. "That explains it." He crosses his arms and looks around like he is looking for something before settling back on Kevin. He pulls a menu from his apron and holds it to Kevin. "What do you want?"

 

Kevin shrugs. "A cappuccino and... what do you have for cake?"

 

Andrew gives him a flat look. "Can't you read? It's written on the chalkboard: cheesecake."

 

"I thought that was only the cake of the day."

 

"Yes. It's the only kind we have today. It's the cake of the day," Andrew answers.

 

Kevin blinks at him. "How do you even choose which cake it's going to be this time?"

 

"It's whatever I felt like baking last night or early this morning. Sometimes there are two cakes of the day because I felt like baking two kinds."

 

Kevin rubs the bridge of his nose. "Andrew, that is no basis for a successful business."

 

"I don't care, I run on a "mind your business" basis."

 

Kevin huffs. "I'll just take the cappuccino."

 

Andrew leaves to prepare his order, but he isn't the one to bring it. The waitress with the bleached hair does. She lays it on the table with sugar and milk and a smile. "Here's your order. You are Kevin, right? I'm Renee. Andrew's talked about you," she says and after wiping her hand on her apron, holds it out to him.

 

Kevin shakes her hand. "Andrew's talked about me?" He asks, trying to imagine a plausible reason for Andrew to talk about anything other than what type of inane sugary cake or ice cream he'd eat for dinner. He comes out blank.

 

Renee laughs quietly. "I may have slightly exaggerated. He's mentioned you. Twice, I may say," she adds with a cheeky wink.

 

The door chimes behind him. He turns around to see two people coming in. A tall black man with hair defying gravity and a small black woman with the posture of someone who is used to being a figure of authority. The man is carrying a sizeable bag that looks hard to carry. It seems heavy but more than that... Kevin squints at it. is it moving or...?

 

Kevin's attention goes back to Andrew when he appears again, a lollipop in his mouth and followed by a tall blond woman, walking like a queen in her high heels and perfectly fitting blue suit.

 

"Allison Reynolds," Kevin says, recognizing her. She is a defense lawyer he's met a couple times of time over his career. He hates her but couldn't deny she is good at her job.

 

"Kevin Day," she says, raising one perfect eyebrow. "I would say it is a pleasure to see you but that would be a lie," she sneers with a faux smile.

 

"A snake like you doesn't care about speaking the truth," Kevin snarks back.

 

There is a choking sound from his right. Everyone's gaze settles on the tall black man who'd entered earlier. The woman is patting his back while he wrestles with his bag. "I'm fine," he says. "Where should I put that Andrew?"

 

Andrew takes the lollipop out. "Just bring it upstairs."

 

Kevin follows the two strangers with his eyes until Andrew plops in the seat in front of him. "Our business is done, Reynolds. You can go back to whatever hell you crawled from," he says, with a shooing motion. Kevin tries to keep a straight face.

 

Reynolds rolls her eyes, pulls her coat on and leaves. Kevin thinks about checking if the bag is really moving  but Andrew steals his cappuccino and drinks from it. When he puts the cup down, he has a little cream on his top lip. For a second, Kevin is tempted to wipe it off with his thumb, but Andrew licks it off. His tongue is blue. Kevin stares a beat too long. "Stealing coffee from your customers now?"

 

Andrew leans back in his chair. "You're not paying so you're not a customer. You are just loitering."

 

Neil comes down the stairs, searching for something in his bag. He is dressed for work, in a black turtleneck and a dark blue suit. "Dan and Matt put the ssss...supplies upstairs," he says, trailing off when he saw Kevin.

 

Neil stares at him in a way that could only be considered a glare before kissing Andrew's temple and leaving without another word.

 

Neil has often been upset with Kevin in the past. Kevin knows he doesn’t have the easiest personality. That being an understatement. He's never gotten the silent treatment, though. "He's angry with me," he says.

 

Andrew snorts. "What an observation, Sherlock," he sneers. Kevin's coffee tastes bitter, and his stomach is in knots. Andrew lets out a huff, something that could have been considered a sigh if it'd been anyone else. He straightens in his chair and grabs Kevin's chin. His fingers were calloused. His eyes were almost green in the clear light of the morning. Kevin couldn't look away. "You disappeared for seven years, without a goodbye, without a word, Kevin."

 

"I left be-" 

 

Andrew lays a hand on his mouth.  It smells like sugar and cinnamon. "Tell it to someone who cares." He leans back in his chair, balancing on the back feet. "Someone like Neil."

 

Kevin finishes his coffee under Andrew's watchful eye. It’s hot enough that he can feel it slide down his throat. It fits the situation. "I have work. I should go."

 

"No one's stopping you," Andrew told him, disinterested.

 

Kevin stands up and gathers his coat. Contrary to what Andrew had said, he follows Kevin to the porch. There is a moment of tense silence. "Why did you come this morning?" Andrew asks.

 

Kevin looks away. "Couldn't sleep. Today I have- well, I can't tell you the details but- today I have a meeting and it’s potentially dangerous. My anxiety has a tendency to keep me up."

 

"Aren't there therapists for that? I'm surprised they don't have one of these in the Feds."

 

"They do and I'm seeing one. But you of all people should know that these types of things never really go away. It's not curable. You just learn to deal with it."

 

Andrew stares blankly before reaching for him. Kevin flinches, but all Andrew does is grab his tie and pull him closer. "I may not like the FBI, but I do believe they don't hire idiots as their special agents," he says. He re-ties the knot of his tie and flattens his collar. "But apparently, they don't have a problem hiring someone who doesn't know how to dress himself."

 

Kevin feels reassured despite Andrew's throw away words. "You're dating Neil," he points out. "A crooked tie is probably not as bad as his usual looks." Andrew makes a disgusted noise at that, which confirms Kevin's statement.

 

He pulls on his coat and scarf. There are words stuck at the back of his throat and it’s a struggle to get them out. "I know you don't like apologies but... I'm sorry for breaking our promise."

 

Andrew sends him a cold look. "I'm used to being disappointed," he says, and the words hurt more than his blank face. Kevin flinches despite himself. 

 

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

 

"It doesn't matter anymore."

 

"What can I do to make it up to you?"

 

Andrew looked a bit surprised for a split second. He crossed his arms. "Seems like you can teach an old dog new tricks. You never used to ask and it’s been twice now. Kevin Day used to have everything handed to him. He didn't need to ask."

 

"I haven't been him in a long time and you know it."

 

There is a tense silence. Andrew crosses his arms, lips pursed. "Don't disappear again. The runaway act is Neil's whole thing. I can't deal with two idiots running away," he says.

 

He takes Kevin a second to understand this is Andrew's answer to his question. "I can do that."

 

"Go away or you will be late."

 

Kevin ties his scarf and does just that.

 

*

 

Alvarez does a double take when she sees him coming. "You're looking suspiciously cheerful for someone who's about to meet with a hardened criminal," she says.

 

Kevin ignores her. "Is everything ready for the meeting?"

 

Alvarez rolls her eyes. "You've checked three times. You know it's ready." She pauses, squinting at him. "Did you get some last night?"

 

Kevin glares at her. "This has nothing to do with work."

 

"Probably not seeing as you're as much of an asshole as usual," she mutters. "Anyway, backups are getting ready downstairs. There's a Kevlar vest and a wire waiting for you. The decoy and the real one."

 

Kevin nods and makes his way downstairs. Rheman is already there, briefing the squad. "Agent Day," he greets him with a nod. 

 

Kevin changes into his Kevlar vest, pulling his shirt over it to look as much as a rich art collector as possible instead of the FBI agent he really is. Once this is done he joins the rest of the squad to hear the end of the briefing. "The meeting will be in a public place with many civilians. Do not fire unless absolutely necessary.”

 

"It's important that we do not spook anyone. Either civilians or the targets. Stay at your post as long as possible, and only engage in situation of grave danger. Remember that Day is a trained agent and doesn’t need immediate back-up. We don’t want any shooting."

 

The briefing done, they prepare Kevin. There is a microphone and a tracker in his watch and in his pocket which is the decoy. They’ve also added one to a small golden chain around his throat. Knowing he would have to ditch the gun, they hadn't given him one, but Rheman doesn’t look happy about the prospect of sending an agent unarmed. 

 

The ride to the meeting point is tense. Kevin rubs his hand where it's been broken years ago. He can feel the scar under his thumb and traces it back and forth. His heart is beating loudly in his chest and his stomach is in knots. He focuses on keeping his breath deep and regular. Alvarez sends him a look and scoots closer to him to press their shoulders together. "You are a trained agent," she told him. "I know you can handle yourself under pressure. They have no reason to turn on you."

 

"Your false identity is foolproof," Jeremy assures him with a wide smile. He is setting up the last few connections to Kevin's microphones and GPS trackers.

 

Kevin appreciates their fact-based reassurance. He is not the type to enjoy the whole "everything will be fine" spiel. He'd seen too much to believe in this.

 

"Oh shit, I just got a match on Tinder," Jeremy says, checking his phone. "And he's hot."

 

"Jeremy, not the moment!" Rheman reminds him.

 

Jeremy grins sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Everything should be set up."

 

An awkward silence falls over the occupants of the van. Alvarez leans closer, her mouth close to his ear. "Do you think there's any straight people in here?"

 

"Why did you assume I’m not straight?"

 

Alvarez lets out a dirty laugh. "Come on, Day, I've seen you stare at Jeremy's abs at the gym."

 

Kevin feels his cheeks heat up, his eyes darting to Jeremy who grins. "I'm flattered, really, but relationships at work are just too complicated," Jeremy tells him with a wink.

 

"Are you quite done? I did not hire any of you to investigate Day's sex life," Rheman reprimands them.

 

Kevin splutters and decides to stare at his lap instead of meeting the eyes of his superior. He glares at Alvarez from the corner of his eyes, only to realize that she's looking at him with a pleased smile on her face and he understands. She'd been to distract him for his panicked state.

 

He isn't the type to say thank you, so he knocks their shoulders together.

 

*

 

Kevin sits on the bench in the interior garden of the shopping mall. Around him, people are living their lives, oblivious to the exchange that will soon happen. Kids are laughing loudly behind him. On his right, a group of teenagers complaining about their classes and teachers.

 

Kevin rubs his hands against his pant legs. His breathing seems too fast and his heart is beating widely in his chest. He counts under his breath. He’s reached five when a man sits next to him. He’s wearing a cap and wide sunglasses, with a chirurgical mask on his face. There is no way to know who he is. Kevin can only gleam details, the brown color of his skin and the scar cutting his left eyebrow. 

 

The man puts on his knees a violin case. He doesn’t open it. “Are you interested in buying La Danceuse?” The man says, voice muffled by his mask, his French accent absolutely atrocious.

 

Kevin drums his fingers nervously against his pant legs. “I am.”

The man snaps open the two clasps of the case. He pushes the top up to reveal a rolled up painting. 

 

Kevin licks his lips. “How much?” He asks.

 

“Twelve million.”

 

“I need to see it before I commit to anything,” Kevin says.

 

“No.”

 

"I need to see the painting. I can't, in all good conscience, promise you the money for a fake."

 

"We are making a deal on the illegal sale of a stolen painting. I don't see how good conscience has any place here,” the man snaps back. Still, with a gloved hand, he peels back the corner of the painting to reveal the painter’s signature. Kevin comes closer, close enough that he notices the tattoo of a snake curling around the man’s wrist, visible between the end of his sleeve and the edge of his glove. He diverts his attention back to the painting.

 

The signature is precise and made in black paint. The way the letters are drawn is expert, if not real. Coupled with the brush strokes of the painting, there is hardly a doubt left. It’s the real one. 

 

He leans back against the bench and crosses on leg over the other. The signal to indicate the painting is indeed the real one. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Alvarez approach slowly, pretending to talk on the phone. 

 

“So?” The man says impatiently.

 

Kevin nods. “It’s real.”

 

The man closes the lid of the case but keeps a hand around the handle. From the corner of his eye, he sees Alvarez come closer. He’s about to grab the man when he bolts away. 

 

“Fuck!” He curses and starts running after him.

 

The fugitive runs up the escalator, pushing people out of his way. Kevin follows after him, screaming Police at the top of his lungs in the hope it will get the civilians away faster.

 

The man veers left. Kevin almost slips but is saved by a woman with an ample chest. He thanks her before running after his man. “You’re under arrest! Stop right there!”

 

It’s only a formality, he knows that won’t work.

 

The fugitive runs into a music store. Kevin has to jump over an open guitar case to avoid breaking it. He mutters a flurry of Irish swears and is gaining on his fugitive when he crashes in a customer. It’s abrupt and unexpected that Kevin can’t stop himself and also crashes into them, sending all three of them to the floor. “My violin!” The customer shouts. Kevin barely glances at the customer, focused on the fugitive who is already jumping to his feet with the painting in hand.

 

Kevin pushes himself up and follows after him, but the man knows the department store better than he does. Somewhere on the way to the parking lot, he loses him. 

 

Kevin, panting, takes the microphone hidden under his shirt. “"Find him," Kevin orders."We need to know who that is."

 

*

 

Laila Dermott, the only Muslim in the entire office, and often joked that she'd only been hired to reach the quota, sits next to him on the sofa.

 

"We watched all the cameras of the department store, and we couldn’t find anything useful," she tells him.

 

"I've figured."

 

She folds her hands in her lap. "We've made a risk assessment and we think it's not a good idea to send you for another meeting. Our superior won't clear it."

 

"This has nothing to do with risk. The art theft division is not their top priority," Kevin says. "They'd prefer to spend the money on cybercrime or finding illegal immigrants. If we let the trail go cold, though, we may never find the painting again."

 

Laila lays a hand on his arm. "No, Kevin, it would be too dangerous to-"

 

Kevin rips his arms away. "I don't care. I'm well aware we aren't the top department of the FBI. But it doesn't mean we should only do the work halfway," he snaps and leaves.

 

*

 

"Kevin? Kevin!"

 

He drags his gaze from the bottle of whiskey he's been staring at. Neil is frowning at him, looking dwarfed in a too big green hoodie, a red beanie on his head. "You look like shit," he says.

 

"You're a delight as always," Kevin mutters. It's comforting, falling back into old habits. Kevin had always liked their banter. He's missed this. He's missed Neil.

 

"What are you doing?" Neil asks.

 

Kevin glances at the bottle. It looks less appealing than it'd been a few seconds ago. "Just shopping."

 

Neil frowns at him. He grabs Kevin's sleeves without touching him and drags him outside. "Don't bullshit me. I've seen you considering buying this bottle."

 

Kevin throws him a dirty look. "What's it to you? You've been ignoring me for the past two weeks."

 

Neil makes a snarling noise. "You fucking disappeared Kevin, you just-" He clenches his fist and takes a deep breath. "I'm not doing this now, in front of the bloody grocery store. I'll take you to our apartment. We'll talk there."

 

Kevin hates him for a moment. For being so reasonable. For looking out for him. He's not part of Kevin's life anymore. He's not- He's not because Kevin made it like this.

 

He deflates. He rubs the scars on his left wrist. Neil glances at it. "Does it still hurt?" Kevin shakes his head. "Okay," Neil says, voice softer than Kevin's ever heard it. "I'm taking you home."

 

"My apartment?" Kevin asks, heart seizing at the idea of going back to his cold and empty apartment. He'd never done well with loneliness. With being alone. That's what happened when you were raised never knowing privacy.

 

"I don't even know where you live," Neil says. "I'm taking you to our apartment. Andrew and I.” Neil starts walking away then stops. "Unless you need to go to a meeting?"

 

Kevin's stomach drops and he stares at Neil. Neil shrugs. "I'm not stupid. Whenever you come, it's always right after the AA meeting down the road. And you haven't touched a drop of alcohol since we've met again. It isn't hard to make a connection." He cocks his head to the side, his lips pulling into a smirk.

 

"You're a damn asshole," Kevin tells him, but his lungs don't feel like they are caving in on themselves anymore.

 

Neil grins wider. "Come on. Andrew's not here, he's got some fancy baking class tonight. I'll make dinner."

 

*

 

Andrew and Neil's apartment is simply decorated but still filled with life.  There are pictures in the entryway, pictures of people he doesn't know and pictures of people he's briefly met. He recognizes the couple who were delivering something at the shop the other day. The guy is smiling at the camera while his girlfriend is kissing his cheek. Allison Reynolds is also featured, in a swimsuit and heart-shaped glasses, drinking from a pink glass while lounging in the sun. There's one of Andrew, curled up in a big jumper and a comforter, a cat in his lap. He's glaring at the camera. 

 

His eyes catch one at the bottom. It's older and Kevin recognizes it in an instant. It's him, with Andrew and Neil, all asleep on the sofa they had in their dorm room back in college. Kevin had yellow paint on his face and Andrew's feet in his lap. Andrew had a forgotten ice cream tub in his hand, and it had been steadily dripping on the floor the entire time they'd been asleep. Neil is slumped against Andrew, legs under him. They look so young. 

 

Kevin's heart aches. It had been a good day. There hadn't been many of them at this point of his relationship with Riko. His call had woken them up, startling Andrew, who'd thrown Kevin off the couch and almost punched Neil. Even that had been funny. Riko asking him where he is had set the tone for the rest of that afternoon. 

 

The back of his neck is prickling and his lungs are filled with shards of glass. His left hand hurts. He opens and closes it uselessly.

 

"Kevin?" Neil's voice startles him. Neil is looking at him, frowning. His hair is a mess from his beanie. "You okay?"

 

He shakes his head. Neil makes a face at that. He tugs at Kevin's scarf and slips his coat from his shoulder. "You need to breathe, Kevin. I'm going to count. Okay?"

 

Kevin nods. He can't talk. His mouth is too busy uselessly trying to pull air in. "One," Neil says, his hands not quite touching Kevin's face, but framing it nonetheless. He takes a gasping breath. "That's good. And... two... and....three, just like that."

 

At ten, he's breathing mostly normally. He's sitting on the floor against the wall. His limbs are heavy with exhaustion and Neil's hands are still framing his face, scarred and comforting. "Thank you," he murmurs.

 

"I used to get them a lot in college," he says.

 

Kevin doesn't remember that. "Really?"

 

Neil sits cross-legged in front of him. His hand hovers around Kevin's knee like he's not sure he can touch. Kevin looks at it and nods. Neil's hand curls around his knee, his thumb tracing circles. "You were too busy with..." He hesitates for a moment. "With Riko to notice. It's okay, you had your own shit to deal with."

 

Kevin laughs. It tastes bitter. "That's what we're calling an abusive relationship with a guy who used my painting skills to make money off my back by selling forgeries to the mafia now?"

 

Neil snorts. "Poor choice of words, I'll give you that." He looks on the verge of saying something for a moment. He bites his lips but doesn't.

 

"I don't blame you for killing him," Kevin says. Neil freezes, his hand gripping his knee almost painfully.

 

"Why did you leave then, Kevin?"

 

"Because every time I looked at you I couldn't stop thinking that you had killed him because of me. I was the one to blame, I'd made you take someone's life away and I just- I couldn't deal with it."

 

"He was going to kill you. He'd already broken your hand, he had a knife in his hand, it was self-defense!" Neil leans forward. He holds his hands, cradles Kevin's face, slowly, giving him the time to refuse the touch. "Look at me. I regret nothing. I would do it again, without hesitation. It isn't your fault. He deserved it."

 

"I know," Kevin says. "I realized. I saw a therapist in Ireland. She helped me a lot. I thought about reaching out to you, you and Andrew, but I was scared. I'd just left without a word and I knew how wrong it is. The more time passed and the harder it is."

 

"You're a coward, Kevin Day."

 

"I know," he says. "I'm working on it."

 

Neil stands up with a groan. "My butt is falling asleep." He holds out his hand to Kevin. He takes it, feeling the scars under his palm. "I'll get ice cream and junk food and we can watch The Great British Bake Off. It's what Andrew and I do when one of us had a bad day."

 

"That's-"

 

Neil holds up a finger. "Don't say anything and just make yourself comfortable on the couch."

 

There's a little spark of excitement at being included in something that belongs to Andrew and Neil. 

 

Kevin takes off his shoes and sits down on the right side of the sofa, back straight, looking around. He can hear Neil bustling in the kitchen. A mewl makes him look down. He discovers a beautiful Persian cat who jumps on his lap and makes itself comfortable.

 

"I see you've met King," Neil says, when he comes back, his arms full of ice cream, chips and a pack of baby carrots. He dumps everything on the table. "That's King Fluffkins, the true ruler of this house. She loves to lay in people's laps and complain when we try to move. We also have Sir Fat Cat McCatterson, but he's easily frightened and shy so he's probably hiding in the bedroom." Kevin pets her awkwardly. Neil laughs. The sound brings a smile to Kevin's lips. "Tea?" He asks, a smile still playing at the corner of his lips. Kevin nods.

 

Neil brings back two cups. "A dash of milk and one sugar, right?" He asks. Kevin nods, surprised that Neil can remember. His heart trips and he rubs at his chest with a frown. He thanks Neil quietly. Neil settles next to him, their shoulders close enough to touch. "So we have barbecue flavored chips, chicken flavored chips, triangle chips and guacamole and baby carrots which I took out just for you. Plus a ton of ice cream in the freezer, but we should wait for Andrew or he'll sulk."

 

Kevin snorts in his cup.

 

Later, tired from his panic attack and lulled by the voices of the tv and the warmth from King and Neil who gradually slumps against him over time, he starts dozing off. In his half-asleep state, he hears the front door. 

 

"Did we adopt another cat?" Andrew says, voice low.

 

"Found him at the grocery store down the street," Neil answers in the same tone. "He was eyeing a bottle of whiskey."

 

Andrew grunts. Kevin hears some shuffling around. Another warmth settles next to him, and a pair of feet settles under his thigh. "Andrew, your feet are freezing," Kevin complains, without opening his eyes. 

 

"You are taking up my couch, you have no say in this."

 

Kevin doesn't even try to argue. He hums. "Missed this," he mumbles. "Missed you."

 

Andrew huffs and Neil lets out a quiet laugh. "Go to sleep, Kevin," he says, amusement clear in his voice.

 

Kevin falls asleep wondering what class he has tomorrow. Art history or life drawing. He can't remember.


End file.
